An Ill Choice
by Raxzo
Summary: This is why you shouldn't work when you're tired. UPDATE: Made a few changes. Is much better now, yes, it is...


"Let's see, what's wrong with this one?" Arturo Smithson asked to no one. The tall demon was standing over his computer, reviewing a file. The horns on his forehead stuck out in front and pointed up.

He was the only one left in the whole Distribution Ward, and didn't feel like being here at all.

But, this was his job. Send the voices out to keep the universe in order. Heroic, no?

Truthfully, it was anything but. The point was to find the loneliest little recluses he could and basically curse them for life. It kept the human shit from building.

At least, building too much.

Most of the ones in this ward would be complacent doing this day in and day out. Except they didn't deal with what Arturo did.

They dealt with the politely psychotic, the kindly suicidal, the caringly fucked-up. Arturo dealt with the most unstable, conflicting bastards ever.

He handled those most outlandish freaks, the crazy mass-murdering self-righteous bastards that caused the most trouble.

Really, Arturo had one of the most difficult jobs in the D.W. It took careful calculation and planning to put the right voice (or voices) with the right psycho. One couldn't just give those people a standard issue unit. They'd go crazier.

Hell, if things got too out of hand, they might even _become_ part of what they're stopping.

Of course, that's why they had to make sure they picked the voices that weren't _totally _crazy; just crazy enough to keep the crap locked in its place. It took careful diligence, cautious patience.

A quality the tired Arturo sorely lacked.

He used the Voice Granting Randomizer to pick what to assign this odd couple to. The randomizer chose a baking food mascot. Twice in a row.

"Jeez, there has to be something to that." Arturo mused, not really caring all that much. He just hated his job so damn much.

So he clicked a few buttons on his keyboard an manufactured a couple of the mascots. The small machine by his computer lit up and began to work. Then, out came two fresh mascots made from Styrofoam, their traditional material for this type of thing. (Although sometimes they used cotton or rubber.) They were the most God-awful things Arturo ever saw.

He knew what the mascot was supposed to look like, and these looked like they were designed by murder incarnate. Menacing, inhuman eyes, demonic chef's hats, hell, one even had an expletive painted right on it…

Whatever. Not his problem.

He went back to his computer, which had a window showing a tall skinny man moving into one fucking wreck of a house.

Arturo didn't bother to check the history of this man due to his tiredness. Had he checked, he would never have assigned anything to him and just let him kill himself.

But he didn't, so he did. He pushed another series of buttons on the keyboard. The Styrofoam things faded away from Arturo and onto the floor of the skinny man's house.

There. He was done for the day. Arturo closed the window just as the skinny man dragged in a fighting woman with sharp nails. She scratched the man up good before getting dragged down the basement.

But Arturo didn't see this. He simply turned the computer off and went home.

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The next day, Arturo's boss called him into his office first thing in the morning.

The other D.W. workers snickers as Arturo walked to the office like a bunch of loser junior-highers.

As soon as he got inside, the boss was yelling like a banshee.

"THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU, SMITHSON?!?" the short, portly demon yelled. The boss had a temper, like most human bosses. But most human boss' short goats horns don't spurt red steam when they're mad.

This surprised Arturo. "Uh, sir…?"

"YOU ASSIGNED TWO UNSTABLE VOICES TO AN UNSTABLE WASTE LOCK!!!"

Arturo gulped. He desperately wished he had background checked the skinny man now.

"Sir… he shouldn't have been in the database if he wasn't-" Arturo began, but was interrupted.

"DON'T YOU DARE TRY AND PASS THE BUCK, SMITHSON!!! YOU SPECIFICALLY SIGNED UP FOR DAMAGED UNIT DUTY TO AVOID THIS!!!"

Arturo said nothing.

The boss tried to cool down and rubbed his temples. After a few more uncomfortable moments, the boss spoke again. "Tell Simonton to assign him a conscience. And make it a cute one. It'll need to be, for_ this_ sicko…"

Arturo took this as his queue to leave and rushed out the door. The rest of the D.W. workers were practically in tears from laughter.

The boss' voice carried, and they had heard every word.

Arturo walked up to a cackling person with black, jointed horns that slicked back like hair.

"Simonton." He said with as much malice as could be mustered.

Simonton stopped laughing instantly. "You know I hate that, _Smithson_."

"Whatever, Dave. Boss wants a conscience. Cute one."

Dave smiled again. "Boy, you fucked _up_."

"Shove it and make something cute."

"On it." This was where Dave excelled, Arturo knew; he may be childish, but he sure as hell could make a conscience. "I'll make it a bunny. Bunnies are cute, right?"

Arturo was annoyed now. "Sure. Whatever. Just get it done."

Dave clicked away at his computer, designing a perfect conscience for the psychopath. A small machine next to Dave's computer began to emit noises and lights.

Then, out popped a living, breathing bunny. It was pink and had round, black little eyes.

"Pretty good, eh? The guys in Innovations have been working on this stuff for a while. It's totally life like, and ultra durable. You could drive a nail through it and it'd still work!" Dave ranted. Arturo had to admit, it was impressive.

"How do you know that?" Arturo asked.

"Innovations made a prototype. Called it Fuller, or something. Did TONS of messed up shit to it. It was awesome." Dave started to laugh as the bunny was put into a scenario that would have the skinny man buy it from a pet store.

Arturo gaited back to his desk, reluctant to get back to work. He did _not w_ant a repeat of last night, and was not very determined to do better.

He sat down and began his work all over again.


End file.
